Death at the Alma Mater (25 page)

IDENTITY PARADE

They were all there
when he got to the SCR just after five. All the old members, along with Constance Dunning, Geraldo Valentiano, the Reverend Otis, Master Marburger, and Mr. Bowles, were crowded around the mullioned windows, murmuring worriedly amongst themselves, watching as the still, shrouded little form was removed from the college and lifted into the waiting ambulance. There were a lot of “My God”s and “This can’t be happening”s. There was even some gentle sobbing and a shrill, hysterical questioning, this coming from India Bassett. It seemed to be aimed at her husband who, white and shaken, looked helplessly at his wife. Outside, pandemonium had broken out as members of the media shouted questions and brained each other with their video cameras as they struggled to get the best shot of a shrouded corpse. The scene would be replayed endlessly that night, often in slow motion, and accompanied by shocked, gasping voiceovers from Gwennap’s various colleagues in the news world.

St. Just looked about the room, taking them all in. All his suspects. There were James and India, of course, they of class and privilege, oblivious to anyone’s happiness but their own, oblivious most of all to their son and his doings. There was Hermione Jax, the kind of woman for whom the words “harmless eccentric” were coined. But was she harmless? Geraldo Valentiano, bolstered by an impenetrable belief in his own charms of seduction, living only for his own pleasure. The Master, the Bursar, and the Dean, the holy—or was it the unholy—trinity? Mr. and Mrs. Dunning, Karl and Constance. A clever man, who had known Lexy well; his wife, a woman expert at getting her own way. Gwennap Pengelly, Lexy’s old rival for the attentions of men. Augie Cramb of Texas, a man with violence in his past, and a past that included a monumental failure to impress Lexy. Sebastian, spoiled but neglected, was the only one connected with the case not there. And Saffron, of course.

Predictably, Constance Dunning was first to speak.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had quite enough.” Turning slowly, she bestowed her lemony gaze upon them all. Today she wore a gold and purple tunic appliquéd around the hem with dolphins frolicking in a stylized sea. The garment, unlike the couture creation he had seen her wear previously, looked amateurishly handmade and the dolphins cross-eyed, but that was difficult to say: He would have to verify this against his limited experience of folk art. Altogether it looked more like something Hermione would wear in a show of dolphin solidarity.

“That’s two people we’ve seen go out of here feet first,” Constance was running on. “We’ve already re-booked our flight—I just knew something like this was going to happen. I told my husband last night something like this would happen, didn’t I, Karl?”

Karl seemed to understand that questions such as this when directed at him were emblematic and not requiring his full participation. Constance Dunning continued:

“We had to reschedule our plane at no little expense, and who’s going to pay for that, I’d like to know? Anyway,” and she turned to face St. Just, “we’ll be leaving tomorrow, Detective Chief Inspector. You can’t hold us here further, and that’s a fact. I have spoken at length with the American Embassy.” The emphasis on the last words could not have been greater had she claimed to have spoken with the Almighty. She looked around triumphantly, as if to suggest that at any moment a team of storm troopers dispatched by the embassy might appear to rescue her from her hostage situation in the SCR. “So don’t try to stop us,” she concluded.

“I’m sure that will be fine,” said St. Just quietly. He watched with some amusement as she deflated, turning a bewildered face to her husband. “However,” St. Just continued, “if you’ll indulge me just awhile longer, I think we can unravel this skein for you before you leave.”

“But you have your suspect … these kids were obviously mixed up in this. And now she’s paid … the ultimate price.”

“It’s the murderer I want,” said St. Just.

“But Seb is—”

“You’d be advised to keep your trap shut. Ma’am.” They all turned in surprise in the direction of the harsh voice. Augie Cramb, much like James, looked pale, shaken, and at the end of his Texan rope.

“Your fatherly show of protectiveness becomes you, Sir, but I would advise you to get a rein on your temper,” warned St. Just. “Otherwise, we can continue this conversation in much less opulent surroundings.”

Augie Cramb subsided.

“Father?” asked the unstoppable Mrs. Dunning.

“If anyone’s been a father to Sebastian, I have,” cut in James gruffly. “I’ve fed and clothed him; I’ve tried to keep him in the right path. And where were you? Riding around playing cowboy on some dude ranch, without a care in the world, and without sending a penny of support.”

“She told me to leave him—and her—alone,” said Augie Cramb. “I tried. But I knew he would be here and realized I wanted to see him. That’s only natural, especially after all these years. I have no other children.”

“James, please,” said India to her husband, but tentatively, as if expecting to be ignored.

“No, India,” said Sir James. “I’ve seen what he’s been up to. He thinks he can just swan in here after all these years and play the benevolent and understanding parent. The prodigal parent, in fact. But he has no idea. Seb was always a handful. But now this … wanted for murder! My God …”

“Now, who said anything about Sebastian and murder, Sir?” said St. Just. “It’s early days, early days. Calm yourself. Now—”

“Father?” repeated Constance Dunning. “You mean to say Augie Cramb is Seb’s father?”

Augie answered without looking at her, addressing instead some point midway on the fireplace mantle. “Yes, dammit. I am Seb’s natural father. Not that it’s got anything to do with any of this.” Turning to St. Just he said, “How did you find out?”

“You mean apart from the fact your son inherited your physique, and your love of rowing? That part was simple observation—it was the genealogical research to back it up that took all of five minutes. Seb’s middle name on his birth certificate is Augustus. What were the chances someone born in 1988 would be given such an unusual, old-fashioned name? Coincidence? Sebastian Augustus Windwell Burrows. The name Augustus appears nowhere in the Bassett family tree, although it’s rife with Sebastians and Windwells. India must have had some feeling that Seb at least deserved to have his real father’s name, in some form, if not his real father.”

St. Just paused, turning to look about him. India sat nodding, eyes averted. When she raised her gaze, a look of complete understanding passed between her and her husband. She did not look at Augustus Cramb, as he was known to the U.S. Department of State, which had issued his passport. Hermione gave her walking stick a tentative thump. Geraldo’s face held a sneer of truculent boredom. When would the subject turn to him?

Sir James nodded in St. Just’s direction.

“This is all very well, but of course it has no bearing on what should be of most concern to you. I’ll ask that you spare my wife, and me, any more public revelations along these lines. They are not pertinent.”

“Very well,” said St. Just. “Let’s find a topic you all might find more pertinent. Let’s see. When you were in the Fellows’ Garden, Sir James, you were perfectly situated to see the rest of the group pass by overhead, going through the gallery walk. Your testimony can help us fine-tune our timetable. Would you mind walking through with me again what you saw on the night of the murder? Whom did you see pass by up there, and in what order?”

James, evidently exasperated but grateful for the change in subject, said, “Really, I’ve no idea. I was focused on Lexy, of course. A group of people went by, all of them in black robes, which makes it even harder to be sure. I really can’t say, except that I do remember Hermione Jax going by; in fact I think she waved at me.”

“That is correct,” nodded Hermione.

“And Portia De’Ath—she’s a Visiting Fellow here, as you know. I think she saw me, and I think she was one of the last out. Or maybe it was the Bursar who was last out … but I tell you, I didn’t have my focus trained there. I was trying to reassure and calm Lexy.”

“That’s all right, Sir. Your recollection is quite good for our purposes. Now, after you saw the Bursar pass by, how long was it before you joined the others in the SCR?”

“Oh, less than a minute, I’m sure. Thirty seconds, perhaps. When I saw him I realized I might be unconscionably late. There was no persuading Lexy to join us. I knew from long experience it was best to leave her alone to get a grip on herself. So I left her—rather too abruptly for politeness, I’m afraid. But it seemed best.”

“Quite sensible of you. Now, when you got to the SCR, who was there?”

“I’ve given this some more thought, you know. I can only say for certain that India, the Bursar, and Ms. De’Ath were there. The Master and the Reverend Otis, I’m quite certain.” The Master lowered his head in acknowledgement. “Mrs. Dunning. I think that’s all but again—”

“You can’t be sure,” St. Just finished for him. “Right, that’s understood. Sir. Now … I suppose the only other question I have for you is this: How foolish did you feel standing there for five minutes or more, talking animatedly to an inflatable doll?”

TAKEN INTO ACCOUNT

The room had suddenly
gone quite still. Only the muted noise of people shifting uncomfortably in their seats and the soft patter of a long-anticipated rain against the window disturbed the quiet. Finally, and again predictably, the silence was broken by Mrs. Dunning.

“I told you, Karl. There would be some sort of deviant sexual practice behind all of this. It’s those boarding schools, you know. They are veritable breeding grounds of vice and corruption. I don’t suppose they can help themselves, poor mites. Why, in the States, we would never ship our young—”

But even her husband, in his gentle way, seemed to have heard enough. “Do be quiet, Constance. That’s not what he means at all. Is it, Inspector?”

“No, of course not. No, indeed it is not. The inflatable doll—shall we give her a name, Sir James? ‘Alibi,’ perhaps? Yes, well. Because this alibi doll was not in use for some irregular or perverted practice—at least, not in the usual sense of that term. Nor as part of an undergraduate prank, which kind of thing has gone on here for ages. ‘She’ was there as a placeholder for Lexy. Lexy, who had already been dead some long minutes. Lexy, whose mortal body already lay near the boathouse.”

Sir James spluttered into speech. “You must be mad. Lexy and I had been divorced for years. All passion spent on my side, I assure you. Why, then, would I engage in such a preposterous performance as you are suggesting? In order to kill someone who meant nothing to me? You are mad, I say.”

St. Just, whose eye seemed to be caught by something outside the window, did not reply immediately. When he turned, a look of the utmost exhaustion etched his handsome features. He said:

“She meant nothing to you, that is true. But what was new, what had changed, was that you finally meant nothing to her. She had at last outgrown her juvenile attachment to you. At last, she had dropped the torch she had carried for so long. Suddenly, she was no longer willing to do whatever you asked of her, in her desperate need to be loved and admired. Just as bad—for you—once her infatuation faded, she began taking a closer look at her financial affairs vis-à-vis you. More to the point, you took a closer look at those finances. The case had altered. And so she had to be killed.”

James Bassett cast his eyes about the room, looking in vain for support. He only found wide-eyed incredulity. “You’re mad,” he repeated.

“At first I thought the fact you two were distant cousins played into this,” said St. Just. “That there might be some family inheritance that could not be altered by the divorce. You know, some form of entailment, so common amongst the titled families. Or perhaps there was some stock you had held in common, once worthless, now worth millions. Her canny way with a portfolio—I thought that might have something to do with this. Perhaps you were jealous of what she’d done with her share? Perhaps there was an option due to expire and if she exercised that option, it could mean your ruin, because of some lingering loophole in the divorce papers?

“But no, we found nothing like that in going over your finances and legal filings, or hers. No business partnership in common, no lingering ties of family inheritance.

“Still, looking at the current situation from a different angle: Could it be that far from mooning about over James, as you were all used to seeing her do, Lexy had in fact chosen this weekend to finally dump him? She was moving on, and a lot of details she had been neglecting, she finally began paying attention to.

“Now, Sir James must have known this day would come, but in the past it hadn’t mattered so much to him. It hadn’t mattered at all, in fact. He had money; his wife had money. But one day he woke up to find his portfolio larded with one bad investment after another—as so many of us have done lately, albeit on a smaller scale, given the state of the economy. But in Sir James’ case, these percentage losses amounted to enormous sums. So, the case had indeed altered. And about the same time, his wealthy ex-wife was cutting him loose—emotionally—at last.”

St. Just turned to the topic of his speech.

“The tragedy, for you, Sir James, was that Lexy was over you. She was free of you. It was rather a final turn of the screw, wasn’t it? Geraldo here was a fling, a symbol, if you like—she was at least trying to enjoy herself, choosing one of the world’s best-known ladies’ men to finally kick over the traces.”

Geraldo acknowledged the compliment with a grave bow of his head. Even playboys, apparently, had standards of greatness.

“Well, that’s a jolly interesting theory, Inspector,” said Sir James. “I killed Lexy because I’ve had rather a bad run in the stock market? Who, as you say, has not watched their stocks plummet lately? You have no evidence of motive whatsoever. Really, what has this country come to?”

“I wonder that myself,” said St. Just quietly, just a trace of menace in his voice. A wiser man would have paid attention to the menace.

“I have half a dozen witnesses or more who give me an alibi,” Sir James ploughed ahead. “Doll, indeed. You’d be laughed out of court. Where’s this doll then? Where’s your evidence?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” said St. Just. “We’ll get to that in a minute. Right now, I’m talking about your motive. As I say, the divorce papers on file revealed nothing of interest. And I assumed that the success of your books, and one in particular, meant that any problems you may have had in recent years were mitigated—years your investments were performing badly, both yours and your wife’s. Your wife, to whose money you’ve had frequent recourse nonetheless to maintain your extravagant way of life. One wonders how soon even India, devoted as she is, would have tired of propping you up?”

India looked away, but not quickly enough to hide a fleetingly guilty look. St. Just sighed. Again addressing Sir James, he said:

“‘We were children together once,’” you said of Lexy. “That wasn’t strictly true—Lexy was the child, you were several years older. But to a romantic like Lexy, old friendships meant everything. Everyone spoke of her dog-like devotion to you, but only one of you—the Reverend Otis—recognized that what was in her sad eyes was not love, nor even mourning for a lost love, but a sort of pity. Pity for you. She had stopped wanting you at last. She, I believe, had finally recognized the man you were.”

“You believe.” Sir James practically shouted his contempt. “I repeat, where’s your proof?”

“And I’ll repeat that I’m very glad you asked and I’ll get to that in a minute. Now, what was strange about your finances was this: About the time the money should have begun to roll in from your book, with talk of its being made into a film and so on, the money just continued to roll out. That could have been explained by a delay in paying the royalties—I understand publishers wait to see the level of returns on a book before issuing a cheque to its author. All right, that made sense, but where was the advance for this famous book? Oh, wait, that’s right! The advance would have been paid years ago, because you sold the book to this publisher years ago. But…what about those royalty cheques? When might you expect to see some cash for your efforts—cash over and above the advance monies? Well, I’m happy to say that a call to your publisher set us straight.”

St. Just’s eyes narrowed, as if scanning a far horizon. He’s going in for the kill, thought Sergeant Fear, fairly bristling with anticipation.

“We had a most pleasant chat today with someone in the accounting office of your publisher, didn’t we, Sergeant Fear? I spoke with Mrs. Pennyfinger, a helpful and extremely competent woman who’s been employed by your publisher for many years. She told me your now-famous book had been published and promptly ‘sank without a trace’—her exact words. She told me you didn’t even earn out your small advance. But then, some time later, the book developed a cult following on the Internet, a completely unforeseen circumstance. Well, not completely unforeseen, because the publisher had retained the rights to come out with a reprint of the book, which they promptly did. A large reprint, at that. And even that print run was not enough to meet demand, because the book was going to be made into a film now—the Reverend Otis knew about that from his reading of a newsletter about the publishing industry. How ironic for you: A book that met universally with seawalls of indifference suddenly becomes a bestseller.

“Now, you might all be thinking what a lucky man Sir James was, to have life breathed into his creation a second time. But here is where it got interesting. Mrs. Pennyfinger told the police that payment had started going out some months ago, but your name, Sir James, was not on the cheques issued by the publisher. Instead, the royalties were going to the person to whom lifetime rights had been legally assigned: your wife at the time, Lexy. Now known, of course, as Lexy Laurant.

“And who had made this momentous decision, and who had signed the paperwork? You yourself, Sir James.”